


Cone of Shame

by Stoney



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek deserves all the Fritos, Fluff, M/M, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves, derek is shot as a wolf, fbi agent stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:12:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stoney/pseuds/Stoney
Summary: A big ol' black German shepherd came into the vet with a giant cone on her neck, and this fic is the result of that. I just miss writing funny, silly stuff, and fun fact: dog toe beans smell like Fritos corn chips.(Thanks to the lovely DevilDoll for the quick and dirty beta-read. The second half will post in a few days.)I AM BEGGING OF YOU NOT TO ADD THIS TO GR, please and thank you.





	Cone of Shame

Stiles stopped short with a hand on the rough bark of a tree in Beacon Preserve to steady himself. He cocked his head to better locate where he'd sworn just a moment before he'd heard an animal in pain. Somewhere just past a fallen log, he heard it again, a mournful “haroo” reminding him of his FBI trainer's German shepherd when she'd been hit by a car during a chase.

But how would a dog end up this deep in the Preserve? Dogs looked for their people when they were hurt; they didn't typically hide. He slowly moved towards the sound. “Hey, buddy. Hey there, pup. I'm just here to help. You okay? You gonna let me find you?”

Another mournful, low howl, and as Stiles climbed over the log, he saw the source of it. A massive, gorgeous black... wolf? Uh oh. Crap, that was a big apex predator right there. Seriously, it was huge. Like two-big-dogs-in-an-even-bigger-dog-overcoat-huge.

“So, I'm just going to stop right here, I think,” he said, nodding to the wolf and keeping a conversational tone. Jeez, an actual _wolf_. “Yeah, please don't kill me.”

The wolf closed its icy-blue eyes, panting. It lay on its side, sprawled in leaf litter with paws twitching on occasion, probably related to the pain. High up near its foreleg, Stiles could see the black fur was glossy, wet. A dark, growing puddle spread out below it.

“Oh, Jesus. Did... did someone _shoot_ you? God, people are the worst.” Stiles would swear on a stack of Bibles that the wolf nodded at that, even though that was ridiculous. And yet. Stack of Bible-swearing.

“Okay, I can _not_ leave you here. I just can't. But I also don't want you to eat my face? I just got my first vacation in I don't know how long, and I haven't seen my dad in ages, and we're supposed to have dinner tonight, and you don't want to eat me, right? Nothing tasty over here.” He inched closer, hands outstretched to show he was a good guy. “I'm just gonna get closer, see what I can do, maybe save your life? Sound good?”

The wolf continued making pitiful and high-pitched noises of distress between gasping. And, hand to god, Stiles would swear, once again the wolf nodded. Freaking _nodded_. Stiles crept forward and sank to his haunches near the wolf's huge paws. Yep, bullet wound right in what would be a pectoral muscle on a human, near the armpit. Shot. 

“Who the hell shoots a goddamn wolf? What kind of monster...”

The wolf erupted with a series of high-pitched whimpers of pain, but nosed at Stiles' hiking boot in what Stiles took as a friendly “not going to eat you, thanks for caring” gesture. Emboldened, Stiles held the back of his hand out for the wolf to smell. “See? Not good for eating. Nothing on me but gristle. I'm like a giant walking pig's ear... crap. That was a terrible image to put in your head.”

The wolf panted, but Stiles chose to believe it was laughing. Stiles dragged the back of his hand over the wolf's massive paw, who relaxed further. The fur was shockingly silky, black shot through with a few flecks of white and brown here and there. Stiles laughed softly to himself for a moment because what on actual earth? He was petting a ding-dang wolf. An actual-fact, real-life _wolf_ , and _it was letting him_. How could anyone hurt such a magnificent thing?

“Seriously, fucking hunters out here messing up the joint.”

The wolf's eyes shot open and a low growl rumbled deep in his chest.

“Easy, boy. Is that who did it? Hunters?”

The wolf softly whined once more, laying back on its side with its eyes closed.

“I... huh. So I guess we're just going to acknowledge and move past the fact that you're smart and miraculously understand me. And if that's the case, then I gotta tell you, I can't leave you out here. Who knows what bacteria is going to get into that wound. And also, I'm pretty sure you're the only wolf for miles and miles, so we have to save you, buddy. Endangered species and all of that.”

The wolf raised its giant head and licked Stiles' hand where it softly stroked the wolf's foreleg.

“Yeah, you're a good guy, right?” Stiles glanced at the back end of the wolf. “Yep. Good guy. Huh. Not used to seeing dogs—”

The wolf growled.

“Sorry, my bad. Wolves. Erm, male animals with their bits intact, wow. But... okay, real talk, buddy. Me saving you means I have to pick you up. Please, _please_ don't eat my face. Or any part of me, really. God, this is colossally stupid...”

Moving slowly to telegraph his intent, he scooped his arms under the shockingly warm wolf's body and winced, nervously waiting for the growl that didn't seem to be forthcoming, and said, “Just going to lift you onto my shoulders, okay, pal?”

Carefully and with a lot of undignified grunting, he power-lifted the massive animal up into the air and managed to get the wolf draped across shoulders in a carry, holding to the wolf's legs to keep it stable. He staggered a little under the animal's weight until he got his footing and slowly walked to where his Jeep was parked. As he did, he kept up a stream of conversation, hoping to keep the wolf calm.

“Well, my dad is going to get an earful about the town he's running while I've been training at Quantico, believe you me. He'll be furious.”

The wolf barked a sharp, nervous sound.

“Ah, no, not with me. He's all for helping animals, people, even himself to a horrible diet when he thinks I'm not paying attention. No, he'll be furious that someone did this to you. My dad, oh, he's the local sheriff; he busted some hunters about ten years ago. They were baiting deer and siccing their dogs on them.”

The wolf growled, causing Stiles to fumble on the path as he jerked in a moment of fear. The wolf licked Stiles' shoulder, almost like an apology, and stopped growling.

“Oh, don't like hunters, huh? Yeah, me neither. Never saw the need for it. Well, I guess you could say I'm a hunter, in a manner of speaking.”

The wolf began whining again, struggling on Stiles' shoulders, but Stiles held fast. “No! Not like the assholes who hurt you. I hunt bad guys.” The wolf kept struggling, so Stiles continued. “I'm an FBI agent, Special Task Force. Well, I have been for about three months, I thank you very much. Catching bad guys who try to kill people, that's my job. I find them and keep folks safe. Wolves, too, promise.”

The Jeep was just ahead. “See that? We're going to get you in the back—got a nice blanket for you, too—and then we'll get you to the vet. We'll get you all fixed up, buddy.”

Once Stiles managed to lay the wolf out in the back on the spare blanket he kept in his old rambler, the wolf dropped his huge paw on Stiles' hand, pinning it, then licked Stiles all over his face.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess you're all right, too,” Stiles said. He grinned and gently patted the wolf's haunch. “Let's get you taken care of. Worried about you.”

Getting the wolf into Dr. Deaton's left Stiles' shirt covered in the black goo oozing from the bullet hole in the wolf's side. Deaton's eyebrows shot sky-high when Stiles staggered in under the weight of the giant animal he was holding against his chest.

“Mr. Stilinski. Are you aware of what you have in your arms right now?”

“A wolf,” Stiles said, “and I don't know how the hell it turned up here in Northern freaking California, but what are you gonna do? Apparently if you're an a-hole, you shoot it. Found this poor guy in the Preserve out past Hale Road. You know, the Howling Rock trail? Good thing I decided to take a hike today, or who knows what could have happened to this sweet little guy.”

Deaton stared at him for a moment, weirdly placid. “Yes. Yes, it's a good thing you did, and yes that's a wolf. Amazing how he's allowing you to care for him.”

The hell of it was that Deaton said that _to the wolf_. 

“Thank you for bringing him in, Mr. Stilinski. I'll take it from here.”

“Well...” Stiles, still holding the wolf even though his arms were starting to throb from its weight, took a step back. “You're going to help him, right? You're not going to put him down or anything?”

The wolf whined, struggling in Stiles' arms until Stiles shushed it. “Hey, no, buddy. I made a promise. I won't let him or anybody else hurt you.” And then, not really thinking, kissed the wolf's head and rubbed his nose over the wolf's fur. The wolf went completely still. Stiles, did, too, realizing he'd just _nuzzled a freaking injured wild animal_. He looked up and saw Deaton frozen, hands outstretched toward a rolling cart.

“Interesting,” Deaton said as he grabbed the cart and lifted the divide between the check-in counter and the back room. “Let's just have you bring him back, then,” Deaton said, motioning at the cart, “and we'll go from there.”

Once the wolf was laid out on the steel examination table under bright fluorescent light, Stiles could clearly see the bullet hole and how it was weeping blood and gore. Gagging slightly, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“I'll just... ho-god, I'll just wait out here? Keep me posted?”

“Yes, I think that's best.”

The wolf whined, claws scrabbling on the metal as if he wanted to go with Stiles.

“Easy, big guy. We're going to get you all fixed up. You better take care of him,” Stiles said fiercely to Deaton, plucking at his messy shirt from where it was sticking to his chest.

“I assure you I will.” Deaton turned to the wolf, hand on his hip, and before the door closed behind Stiles, he was sure he heard the veterinarian ask, “What happened, Derek?”

...Derek.

Maybe the guy named stray animals who came into his clinic? Weird choice in dog—er, in wolf names, regardless.

Stiles changed into one of the spare shirts he kept in a go-bag and settled in for a long wait for what he presumed would be a necessary surgery. Instead, just before he could cross his legs and grab the well-worn _Highlights_ magazine on the side table—time to check in on Goofus and Gallant—he heard a yelp and saw a bright flash around the gap of the examination door. He jumped to his feet and got past the counter just as Deaton wheeled the wolf back out on a cart. He reached underneath and pulled out a large, stiff sheet of clear plastic, wrapping it into a cone around the wolf's neck with a serene smile.

“All done.”

“All... done? That was literally five minutes. Okay, not _literally_ five minutes. Literally five minutes and forty-seven seconds,” Stiles added, checking his watch. “My friend here—”

“Your friend?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Me and Mr. Wolf? We're totally bros now. You carry a guy out of battle on your shoulders while they're bleeding out, it's universally understood that you're life-long bros.” Seriously. Universally understood. An entire genre of movies are dedicated to this very thing?

The wolf attempted staggering to his paws on the table, but the giant plastic cone knocked around, preventing it from achieving level footing. Deaton opened a drawer, pulled out a leash and collar, affixed it to the wolf and held it out for Stiles. The wolf, Stiles noticed, growled at Deaton as he did so, but Deaton performed his task with his freaky calm smile, unbothered by a large-ass _wolf_ growling at him.

“Wait,” Stiles said. “Bleeding out. I have the evidence of a good liter of that on my other shirt. Doesn't he need to stay for observation? IV fluids? Penicillin? _Something?_ ”

“Oh, no. He'll be just fine.”

Stiles thought this guy was a respected vet. His buddy Scott worked here for years back in high school, loved the guy. This blasé attitude wasn't sitting right with Stiles at all. His voice dripping with sarcasm and arms crossed tightly against this chest, he asked, “He? Derek, you mean? The wolf? Wolf Derek?” 

“Yes, exactly. Derek will be just fine. A little rest, maybe a steak—raw, preferably—to encourage replenishment to his red blood cells faster and, what is it? Fritos?” Again, he seemed to be _talking to the wolf_. And the wolf looked _bashful_.

“Yes,” Deaton continued. “Fritos. Not too many. Processed foods should be considered a rare treat.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's pretty simple,” Deaton said. “Processed foods contain high amounts of—” 

“No, no,” Stiles hissed waving his hand. “ _I mean about the wolf_.”

“Derek.”

“ _Fine_. Derek. I don't understand what you're saying to me. I know they are words you are using, but I don't understand what they mean put together in the way you just did?”

“Mr. Stilinski, or, excuse me,” Deaton said with a small nod and smile, “ _Agent_ Stilinski. Your father has been very vocal around town, very proud of what you've accomplished, naturally. I'm giving you exit instructions for your friend. The wolf, who is Derek. The instructions are that you give Derek a steak, perhaps reward his good behavior with you by giving him a handful of Fritos, and to let him sleep close-by where he'll be safe during his recovery.” Deaton held out the leash once more, smiling benignly. “Free of charge today. The clinic is running a shot-wolf special.”

Stiles gaped at him, but took the leash automatically. “Shouldn't he go to a... a sanctuary or something?”

“Oh, no. Home with you.”

Stiles wrapped the end of the leash around his hand once. “Home.”

“With you, yes.”

“With me. Home.”

“Correct.”

“To _my_ home?”

“Mr. Stilinski, do... you not have a home? Is that the problem?”

“Of course I have a home!” Stiles shouted. The wolf clambered off the table, nails clacking and clawing at the metal and tiled floor until he leaned heavily into Stiles' side, almost knocking him over and absolutely managing to knock over a full pen cup on the counter with the edge of his cone. “I think you're missing the point.”

“Oh? What is the point?”

“This is a wolf!”

“Yes.”

“A freaking wolf!”

“That is correct. Derek.”

“I—” Stiles snapped his mouth shut with a clack. He threw his free hand in the air. “Okee-dokee! Well, _Derek_ ,” he said with gusto. “Shall we?”

The wolf stumbled to the front door where the cone bonked into the doorway, knocking Derek, who was a wolf, backwards. Stiles did _not_ laugh. Nothing about this was funny. 

“I'm not laughing,” he said to the wolf, oh, pardon him and the queen of England, he said to _Derek_ while struggling to keep his face straight. Once outside the clinic, the wolf— _Derek_ —sat on its haunches and refused to move, choosing instead to stare at the leash in Stiles' hand.

“Yeah. Do we even need this?”

Derek, and that was still a weird name for freaking canine, but Stiles wasn't really able to think of a new name on the spot—no spots, so that name wouldn't work—ugh, _Derek_ , who was a wolf and a wild one at that and yet here they were... Good lord. _Derek_ , the wolf, put his nose in Stiles' palm where he was holding the leash end. Derek gently took it in some sharp-ass teeth (all the better to eat you with), and _walked himself_ to the Jeep and stood waiting patiently at the back. 

Stiles was possibly having an episode. Nothing else could explain the current state of affairs.

“Okay, so this is a thing happening that I didn't expect, but what are you going to do, I guess?” He opened the back where the wolf tried to jump up, but the edge of the cone caught the metal lip of the back bumper, and with a hollow “thlonk!” sound, flopped Derek onto his back legs. The wolf whipped its head around and stared at Stiles, and there was no doubt it was angry. The cone sort of amplified the growling, which was again, _not_ hilarious.

“I didn't say a thing. Here's me, not laughing. Wouldn't do that to you, big guy. I feel like you've been through enough today, you know, with the whole 'getting shot by jerk wads' thing. Hey, here's an idea. Maybe just let me help you out a little? We're friends now, right?” 

He got his arms behind the wolf—no small feat as the wolf on its four legs came to Stiles' ribs—and wrapped his arms around it, lifting up its front legs to the back of the Jeep, forelegs stick-straight and sort of slapping at the bumper until they managed to connect. The wolf jumped up from there, kicked Stiles' bloody shirt out to the pavement and circled a few times before settling down.

“Rude,” Stiles said, grabbing the shirt and shoving it into the floor-well of the passenger seat. “Well, let's go home?”

Once they arrived, Derek managed to get down on his own, leash trailing behind him. He was clearly trying to sniff the walkway, but the cone got in the way. It made a scraping noise as the wolf dragged it along the sidewalk, before it bumped into the front steps.

“Again, see me being an absolute mensch with the not-laughing. Let's see if you'll behave with your stitches or whatever Deaton did when we get inside, and I'll take that off later, Scout's honor.”

As soon as the door shut behind them, Derek sat back on his haunches and stretched his neck out, like he knew what Stiles had said.

“It's been ten minutes. Pretty sure you can't heal a freaking gunshot wound in ten minutes, so cool your jets. Come on, let's get you something to drink.”

The wolf whined.

“Yeah, steak, too, I remember.”

The wolf thumped his tail.

“Bossy... Let's go. Kitchen's this way. I promised you a steak, and I'm a man—”

The wolf plowed past him toward the kitchen and knocked Stiles on his butt.

“We have got to work on your manners if you're going to be in this house, pal,” he shouted while getting to his feet. 

Derek was on his hind legs, trying to nose at everything on the counter, but his cone was knocking everything in its path around and to the floor.

“I swear to... You're behaving like a wild animal!”

They both went stock-still and stared at each other, Stiles' eyes wide and Derek's narrowed into fluffy slits.

“Fair enough. But you had all of those manners before,” Stiles said, running his hand through his hair, “so maybe a little of that if you want the good stuff? Buddy? Pal? Por and favor?”

Derek slumped onto his haunches again, hang-dog expression—heh—firmly in place.

“Yeah, you should feel embarrassed. Act like you've been somewhere before, jeez.”

He pulled one of the T-bone steaks he and his dad had planned for the grill that night out of the fridge and regarded it, then glanced at Derek, whose ears were up and head tilted, tongue lolling in anticipation. Drool fell off his tongue and chompers onto the plastic.

“That can't be sanitary. And yes, you should be excited. These came straight from the butcher. But here's my problem,” he said, pushing Derek away from where he'd been creeping forward, eyes locked on the steak. “My problem is that if I just give this to you, you're going to make a mess. Should I cut it up? Oh, I know! Come on, my dude.”

He pushed on a folding door at the opposite end of the kitchen where the laundry was.

“Cement floors, drain in the floor, I'm a genius. Here, buddy. Go bananas.” He held out the steak, which Derek took carefully, eyes locked on Stiles' face, and hovered over the cool concrete floor and started to tear into it, cone scraping the floor or banging into the washer as he chowed down.

“You hang out here and do your thang,” Stiles said, shooting a finger gun. Derek stared at him blankly before shaking his head and getting back to the steak. “Unbelievable,” Stiles muttered. “You're the one with the drool-and-blood-covered cone of shame and somehow I'm the embarrassment.” The wolf snorted. Probably got blood or something on his snout. “Well, I'm just gonna shower upstairs. You stay here, eat your food, be a good boy, all of that. Okay?”

Derek blinked serenely, licking at the steak before tearing another bite off with razor-sharp teeth like it was a damn croissant.

Stiles shut the door and ran upstairs to clean up, murmuring under his breath, “Pits and parts, don't leave the wild wolf in the laundry room, just rinse the pits and parts.”

No sooner than when he tugged on some loose sweatpants, he heard a bellow, a crash, and “ _STILES!_ ”

“Shit, shit, shit, Dad, shit, shit—loose step—shit!” Stiles almost forgot to skip the next to last stair on his way into the kitchen where his father, Beacon Hills' sheriff for nineteen years now and typically thought of as “unruffleable” by... people with poor grammar skills, stood in the kitchen with his index finger pointed at the folding door that closed off the laundry room.

Dad looked ruffled. Rumpled. Upset. He definitely looked that last part in particular and incredibly confused. He snorted an angry breath and shook his finger at the door. “That. That... that.”

“I didn't think you'd be home so soon!”

“Stiles, that is a gee damn _wolf_ and it is _eating my steak_.”

A low growl could be heard rumbling on the other side of the admittedly flimsy barrier separating a wild animal from his father.

“Let me explain,” Stiles said, hands out to placate his definitely upset father.

“How did you... And then you brought it?” Dad pointed sharply at the door, then at Stiles. “Here? You brought it here? And you gave it my dinner?”

“It was hurt?”

“Oh my god, you are a grown man now, Stiles,” Dad said, running a hand over his face. “You can't give me the 'it followed me home' speech. And this isn't even your home!”

The wolf stopped growling.

“Wow, Dad.”

“That's not what I meant, and you know it. How in the blue blazes did you manage to get a _wolf_ into my laundry room?”

“I... threw the steak in and shut the door?”

“That's your steak, then. I'm calling animal control.”

“No, Dad, wait!” he shouted, and in the ensuing silence, heard a faint whining noise from the laundry room. “Oh, no, are you hurt, big guy?” 

As he stepped to open the door, his dad caught his arm and hissed, “Don't open it! If he's hurt, he'll lunge!”

Stiles laughed, waving a dismissing hand. “Nah. He'd been shot when I found him. He let me carry him to the vet and everything.”

The sheriff stared open-mouthed. “You're a cuckoo bird. A damn changeling.”

“Just... hang on. Go stand in the doorway if you're scared of a little—”

His dad cleared his throat.

“—a big sweetie pie wolf-puppy.”

“For the love of... Fine.”

Stiles cracked open the door enough to push his head through. The wolf sat on his haunches, the steak all eaten up, the cone now covered in a blurry pinkish film, and the T-bone between his giant front paws. He cocked his head at Stiles and whined softly.

“Now, look. My dad, he's... not much of a dog person. Don't roll your eyes at me, Derek; I know you're not a dog! You're a wolf. The Godfather of the dog world, hardest working canine in show business.”

“Son? Are... are you talking to the wolf?”

Stiles popped his head out and twisted to say, “Of course!” 

“...Derek?”

“Pfft. _I_ didn't name him,” Stiles snorted. 

“Oh, of course, how silly. Excuse the hell out of me.”

Stiles stuck his head back into the laundry room. “Sorry about that. He's not much of an animal lover.”

The wolf dropped to his belly, his furry chin resting on the inside of his now-disgusting cone.

“Don't look at me like that! I'm going to work on him, but we have to ease him into the idea a little, okay? So look. Big trust issue here. If I open the door, are you going to behave?”

The wolf sat up sphinx-style and tilted his head again, shifting the cone so it knocked into the dryer.

“Rules: None of that 'on the counter' stuff from before. No, um, doing your business inside. And no eating of my father.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for acknowledgement then quickly added, “And no eating me, either.”

The wolf, oh for crying out loud, best just to go with the damn fever dream, _Derek_ thumped its— _his_ tail a couple of times and pulled himself forward on his belly with his front legs until he could nose at Stiles' hand.

“Cool. Thanks, Derek. Best bro ever.”

Derek let out a yip and licked Stiles' hand more thoroughly and got to his feet, stretching his front legs out with a satisfied groan.

“Now, I'm going to open this door, and you're going to behave.”

Derek shouldered his way through the gap, knocking the laundry basket and Stiles aside, and headed straight for Sheriff John Stilinski, manly-man, who looked terrified as he backed up against the kitchen cabinets. Derek once again sat on his haunches and held out a front paw to shake.

“What is that on his neck?”

“A cone,” Stiles said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels. “See? Told you he was a good boy. Aren't you? Who's a good boy? You are!”

Derek twisted his shaggy neck—scraping the lower magnets off the fridge with the edge of the cone into a skittering sprawl on the linoleum—to shoot what could only be described as a baleful look Stiles' way, then continued to hold out a paw until the sheriff tentatively reached out and gave it a little shake. Apparently satisfied, Derek put his snout in the air and sniffed delicately, approached a cabinet just to the left of Stiles' dad's shoulder and let out a sharp bark and a whine.

“Uh, Stiles?”

“I have no idea... Oh! Right! I forgot. Sorry, Derek. Dad, go fire up the grill for the last steak, yes it's yours, and we'll meet you outside in a bit.”

“'I'll just visit for a few days,'” the sheriff said to himself. “'Just want to unwind and relax with my old man,' he said. Un-fu—” The back door shut behind him with a sharp sound, cutting off his tirade.

“D-man, go grab your bone and we'll take this outside,” Stiles said, nodding to the laundry room. He stuck the magnets back on the fridge, grabbed a bag out of the pantry—still mostly filled—and held the door open for Derek, now with a nice, juicy bone in his mouth, to go outside. Derek dropped his bone on the grass next to a folding chair and sat, waiting for Stiles, who sank into the chair.

“Hey! Where'd you hide those?” his dad asked, closing the lid on the grill with a frown.

“In an empty bag of quinoa.” Stiles took the clip off the bag of Fritos and poured a generous amount into his hand and held it out, slipping it into the range of Derek's mouth inside the cone. For all that it was full of dangerously sharp teeth—something his dad managed to shout in a strangled voice—Derek carefully ate each corn chip one by one, catching them with his tongue to be chomped slowly and thoroughly.

“Weirdo,” Stiles replied, popping four at a time into his mouth.

The sheriff stared at him with his hands on his hips. “How come I don't get any?”

“Because Derek was literally prescribed some by the vet.”

“Oh, baloney.”

Stiles laughed. “Call him and ask.”

“Dr. Deaton?”

“Yep.”

“The guy's a nut-case.”

“Oh, I don't disagree. But seeing as he healed up my friend here in a flash, like, literally, come to think of it...” Stiles shook himself and wiped his hand on his pant leg. Derek sat stock still staring at the open bag. “He healed up my friend Derek here and didn't charge me for the visit, so—”

“Wait.” Dad slapped the steak on the grill and closed the lid, then pointed at the wolf. “You said this...”

“Derek.”

He rolled his eyes. “ _Derek_ , was shot?”

“Yep.” Stiles poured a few more Fritos into his hand and held it out where Derek once again carefully ate them one-by-one like a total weirdo.

“Any chance Deaton saved the bullet?”

“No clue,” Stiles said, wiping his hand on Derek's fur, who growled, but laid down to worry at his bone.

“Didn't they teach you anything at the FBI?”

Both Stiles _and_ Derek looked sharply at him.

“Low blow, Dad.”

“Hey, I'm just saying. Sounds like you were off your game.”

“Well, yeah. Had to take care of my pal here. Man down, takes priority, duh.”

Derek rubbed his massive head against Stiles' leg, then licked at it.

“Aww, I love you, too, buddy.”

“He's just licking the chip salt off your pant leg.”

Stiles shot his dad a dry look. “We've bonded, okay?” He ignored how Derek kept licking over the one spot on Stiles' sweats where he had, actually, wiped chip salt and grease onto them. He poured a few more Fritos into his hand and glared at his dad while holding it out. Derek made several sub-vocal rumbling noises, thumped his tail, and ate them one by one with slow relish.

“If Deaton has a casing,” the sheriff continued, “we could maybe run a trace. I'd love to get my hands on some poachers.”

“See?” Stiles said to Derek. “Told you he hates hunters.”

Derek whined and dropped his muzzle to the ground. Stiles scritched the wiry hairs at the wolf's spine for a moment, but when Derek started sneaking licks to the blood and grease staining the cone, he couldn't take it.

“Nope, I was right the first time. This can't be sanitary.”

“Son, they put those on the animals to keep them from hurting themselves,” his dad said, pulling his steak off the grill.

“Just for a bit,” Stiles said, sliding off the chair and kneeling at Derek's side. “I have to at least clean that gunk off it.” He reached out, but stopped, making sure Derek was looking at him. “Uh, yeah. So again, we're still working on that whole 'don't eat my face because you got a steak and treats' thing here. I'm going to take this off and clean it up. Sound like a deal?”

Derek thumped its tail.

“Seriously, you're the coolest. I appreciate you. But don't go bugging your stitches or whatever Deaton did, okay? Promise?”

More tail thumping.

His face twisted with nerves, Stiles couldn't help the “gaah” noise as he nervously reached for the cone. The only real way to describe the look the wolf was giving him was “exasperated”.

“Oh, I'm sorry I'm not presenting as more brave as I grab the neck of a wild animal, one that looks like he weighs a good two-hundred pounds and has teeth that can puncture a tractor tire, I might add. Excuse the heck out of me.”

The wolf—Derek—rolled his eyes.

“Hey, you know what?” Stiles said, slumping back into his chair. “My bad. You're absolutely right. We're past that. We should be.”

“I'd say so,” his father drawled, a huge bite of steak shoved to the side of his mouth. “You both ate chips out of the same damn hand.”

Derek's jaw opened like he was smiling. Stiles tried to ignore the drool on the wolf's tongue and its gleaming, white teeth. 

“I... Yeah. Okay, I'm just going to ask you to please not kill my father's only son as I...” He undid the clasp on the cone where it flipped and flopped, flatworming away on the grass. Derek shook his head and neck out, then whined as it clearly hurt where the bullet had pierced him. Derek tried to lick at it, but couldn't get his head just right, bobbing in a ridiculous way in its efforts to reach the spot.

“What did we _just_ say about not bothering your stitches? I literally just told you...” Stiles knocked the wolf's head away, expecting to see a shaved patch where Deaton had stitched him up. Except there wasn't anything there. “Hey, what the... Let me see?” 

Derek dropped his head, his back hunched up in that guilty way all dogs looked when they got caught licking things they shouldn't.

“Did he even do anything? I mean, you're not bleeding...” Stiles gently raked his fingers through the fur, but couldn't find evidence of the hole. The fur was still tacky with blood, though. “Gross. Right. Let's clean you up first.”

“There's a hose on the side of the house,” his dad said, dragging a forkful of meat through steak sauce.

Derek snorted and turned his back on John.

In a stage whisper, Stiles said, “I think he'd like to preserve _some_ dignity today? We'll use the bathroom.”

“You'll clean it all up, too. I don't want to find dog hair in the drain.”

Derek, mid-walk to the door inside, stopped and shot the sheriff a look that on a human would have been one of complete betrayal. His dad must have agreed, because he swallowed thickly, set the plate down and said, “Sorry. Wolf hair.”

Derek shook his huge head and stomped—there was no other word for it—to the door and waited, tail stiff and ears back.

“He's just new to this,” Stiles said in a stage whisper. “And he's worked all day. Cut him some slack,” Stiles said, opening the door and letting Derek inside first. He, too, shot a look of betrayal at his father before following Derek inside.

#

Trying to run the shower was an utter failure. Derek jumped out of the tub as soon as the water started pouring down. 

Stiles snapped the shampoo bottle closed. “You. Sit.”

Derek's shaggy head reared back at Stiles' exasperated command.

“Please.”

Derek sat.

“I'm going to get a cup. You're going to sit in the tub. I will fill the cup up and wash off the disgusting mess on your fur, revealing the true, beautiful you. Yes?”

Derek sighed, hunched forward, and nodded.

A few minutes later found Stiles filling up a giant plastic cup from the local BBQ joint, pouring lukewarm water over a shivering wolf in the tub. He kept up a steady stream of chatter as he soaped up the wolf. “See? Who wants to walk around with all that sticky stuff, huh? Not you, no sir. Now you smell like a real man. Wolf. You know what I mean.”

He combed his fingers through the soapy, silky fur to loosen bits of gunk and dirt out of Derek's shoulder, carefully feeling for what had to be a pretty sensitive divot of raw flesh, but there wasn't one.

“Huh. That's weird.”

Derek continued to watch the water run down the drain.

“Like, you should have an exit wound. At the very least you should have an entry wound.”

He filled the cup one last time for a final rinse. “Seriously. There is no wound here. Does it hurt?”

Derek shrugged.

Wait.

“Uh. What?”

Derek jumped out of the tub just as Stiles yelled, “Gah! Wait!”

Derek started to shake, then immediately aborted the movement, almost falling over in a tangle of wet, furry legs.

“Dude. The towel is _right here_.”

He draped the towel over Derek's still-dripping back and rubbed gently. “Not hurting?”

Derek licked the side of his face then scratched at the bathroom door. Stiles, thoughts focused on how on earth a bullet wound could just disappear in a matter of hours, mindlessly opened the door and followed Derek to Stiles' bedroom.

...where Derek jumped up onto Stiles' bed, sniffing the middle of the mattress, exhaling with a loud whuff, before circling three times and settling down.

“Uh.”

Derek raised his head from where he'd been licking his paw, seemed to survey the bed, and stood, moved over a foot, circled, and settled down.

“Yeah, thanks. Not what I meant.”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah, Dad!” Stiles moved to the bedroom door, ajar, and patted his arms free of remaining water droplets.

“You mind me calling Deaton about that bullet in the morning?”

Derek buried his head under Stiles' towel.

“Uh, no?”

“Okay. Goodnight. Make sure the wolf doesn't piss in the house.”

Derek's head shot out from the pillow and glared—there was no other word for it—at the door.

“Dude, he doesn't mean to be rude.”

Derek snorted and buried his head back under the pillow.

“But seriously. You're... not going to mark the house, are you?”

The growl from under the bedding was all the answer Stiles needed.

“My bad.”

# # #

Stiles woke up, burning hot and sweating, but strangely comfortable. Rising to consciousness, he noticed his head was under his pillow, and a snout was buried in his ear. 

“Oh. Yeah. Lord Wolfiness.”

He luxuriated on the bed, stretching and letting himself fully awaken, smirking when he noticed Derek, who again, was a wolf, did the same.

“Sleep okay?”

Derek's tail thumped.

“Usually I get up two or three times a night. Slept like a log. A hot, fur-covered log.”

With a tiny groan and shake, Derek leapt nimbly to his feet—paws?—and scratched at the bedroom door.

“Okay, okay, I'm up.” Yawning and scratching his belly, he opened the door and followed Derek down the stairs to the back door. Derek circled the backyard, found a spot, then after lifting his leg, dropped it and stared with what could only be described as a haughty expression at Stiles.

“Privacy, I get it. Sorry, my dude. I'll just...” He shot a thumb over his shoulder and headed back inside to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He left the door cracked for when Derek was ready to join him for breakfast.

A few pancakes later (turned out Derek loved extra syrup and butter, because even though he was a literal animal, he so very wasn't), the sheriff came by in full uniform and stole Stiles' last bite.

“Hey!”

“It has the least amount of syrup. _And_ butter. Don't forget, I raised you.”

“Fair point.”

The sheriff caught the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “I stopped by Deaton's before I came back here on break. He still had the bullet.”

“Can you trace it?” 

Derek dropped his snout on Stiles' knee, his eyes closing as Stiles absentmindedly scratched between his ears.

“Yep. Should get a report soon. Ballistics owes me a favor.” His dad held the back of his hand out nonchalantly, but Derek had no problem scrambling to all four legs from under the table and smelling it, then granting the sheriff a lick. And the sheriff had no problem burying his hands in the scruff of the wolf's nape, grinning to himself as he did. “Yeah, you're a good boy, huh?”

Derek's tail thumped.

“Yeah, you are. We'll find who did this to you, Bud. I don't like hunters breaking laws in my county.”

Derek's head dropped and he skulked back under the table.

The sheriff watched him do it, then nodded. “That wolf... is not a normal wolf.”

Stiles beamed and wrapped his legs around Derek's hindquarters under the table. “Nope. He's awesome.”

The sheriff stared at him for a moment, then knocked his knuckles on the table twice. “We'll get to the bottom of this. Heading back, kiddo. See you for dinner?”

“You got it.”

“Get a third helping,” his dad added, nodding towards the tail thumping madly just shy from being hidden under the table. “And extra Fritos.”

Stiles laughed when Derek barked.

#

Derek sat like a person in the front seat of Stiles' Jeep as they ran errands, so Stiles put the seatbelt on him like he was one. Derek also seemed to think it was totally normal to go into the grocery store with Stiles, until Stiles grabbed the top of the Jeep's passenger door and said, his voice sheepish, “Oooh, maybe not? I mean, it's not like you're a purse dog.”

Derek looked away, shoulders hunched.

“I know you're not a dog, don't take offense.” Stiles rubbed the soft velvet of Derek's ear between his thumb and forefinger and grinned when Derek leaned into it. “You know as far as I'm concerned we're equals, right?”

At Derek's whine and tail thump, Stiles continued.

“It's speciest, that's what it is, the whole 'no dogs allowed' thing. But you know how people get. They see a big animal—you're more than an animal, I'm talking from their perspective—and they freak out. They don't know how great you are.”

Derek shot Stiles a look over his black, shaggy shoulder, and there was enough forgiveness in it that Stiles managed to say, “I'll get you the better steak. Scout's Honor. And extra Fritos. And... I feel like you need something to round out your diet. Salad?”

Derek looked at the dash sullenly.

“Fruit?”

Derek growled.

“Work with me here. You can't live on steak and corn chips.”

Derek whined.

“Dude. I get it. I totally would, except for how every now and then some fresh green peas—” 

Derek thumped his tail.

“Right? They're so fresh and like, they literally taste like the color green. And? They're a little crunchy if you cook them right, so consider it on the menu tonight, my friend.”

Derek circled the seat and settled in, and because Stiles was such a good bro he didn't comment about Derek's back half slipping off the seat onto the floor boards, because seriously, wolves were huge.

#

After stashing the groceries in the fridge, Stiles and Derek took a ride through the Preserve. “Let's just retrace some steps, yeah?”

Derek, his ears and tail low, sat in the passenger seat with his nose out the window.

“I just don't get it,” Stiles said. He slowed down on a bumpy trail to keep from hurting Derek's snout where it rested on the open window. “Who looks at someone as gorgeous as you and thinks, 'Yeah, shoot it.'?” 

Derek stretched his back leg out to rest on Stiles' hand on the gear-shift.

“People, man. We can suck, huh?”

After a few moments of rattling through the Preserve in silence, Stiles slowed to a stop. “Hang on.” He got out but didn't close the door; Derek took advantage of this by jumping out after him. Stiles stopped in front of a pine tree where there was a slash mark shin-high on the bark. Derek sniffed it, whined, and began growling low from his chest.

“Yeah, that looks like a car hit it, huh? What idiot would drive through here that fast and reckless, though?”

Derek dropped low in a defensive move and backed up to the Jeep. Stiles felt the hairs stand on his neck and arms. “You see something? Someone?”

Derek went silent and climbed awkwardly into the Jeep.

“Good enough for me,” Stiles said quietly. He wished he had his side-arm on him. He shook out his arms, casually climbed into the Jeep, said out loud, “Well, I think I'd rather sit at home watching the game than hike, how about you, boy?” and pulled the door shut. He threw the Jeep in reverse and saw the red dot dancing on the dash just inches from his hand before speeding out of range.

“Well... fuck.”

Derek was curled in a ball in the footwell, shaking.

#

“That's not an ordinary round,” the sheriff said, walking in and hanging up his jacket.

“We got sighted in the Preserve this afternoon,” Stiles said.

“Someone saw you with a wolf?”

“Nope,” Stiles said, shoving his hands in his jeans' pockets and rocking on his Converse, “I mean laser-sighted.”

The sheriff stared at his son, mouth agape. Derek padded into the entryway and sniffed the sheriff head to toe, then gave his hand a lick.

His dad shook himself a little, then scratched Derek's head. “Yeah, you're not a normal wolf, are you?”

Derek, sitting on his haunches, leaned his head into the sheriff's hip, then trotted back into the living room.

“Now what the hell do you mean about you two and... What the hell is going on in my county?” the sherrif asked, kicking off his shoes.

“Dad, someone's out there. Laser sights, high-velocity mags, targeting random wolves who shouldn't be in California in the first place. Think these guys are being raised for hunting? Private land somewhere? Then somehow Derek got away?” Stiles said, nodding at Derek.

Derek huffed an angry noise and crawled under the kitchen table.

“Dude. I'm just spitballing because you have no vocal cords. Don't get mad at me.”

The sheriff scrubbed his face with both hands. “My son is talking to an animal. And the hell of it is, I think the animal understands him completely.” To Stiles he said, “The bullet is not only from a high-powered rifle, it was tainted. Deaton said there was an herb inside it, something meant to torture.”

“Like poison?” Stiles thought about the black goo he'd seen in Derek's wound.

Derek, curled into a ball, whined and tucked his snout under his forearm.

“Buddy, we're going to find who did this,” Stiles said while crouching down, “and we're going to make them pay.”

“And I already found who did it,” his dad replied.

Derek sat up so fast the top of his head smacked the underside of the dining table with a loud thunk.

“Gun dealer moved into town last year. Kept quiet. Introduced himself to me back in the day, which I appreciated at the time. Guy by the name of Argent. Chris Argent.”

The sheriff looked to Derek, presently showing his very impressive teeth and growling sub-vocally.

“That name mean something to you?”

Stiles shook his head, “Never heard it be—” 

“I'm asking him,” his dad sighed. He hunkered down and asked Derek, who again, it must be stated was a wild wolf, “Argent?”

Derek's growling grew louder.

“Problem.” The sheriff stood up with a small groan and a hand low on his own back. “Chris Argent has a rock-solid alibi. He's in France. Been there for a month.”

Stiles opened his mouth, but his dad cut him off. 

“It checks out, Son.”

“So what now?” Stiles called over his shoulder, opening the fridge to let the steaks come to room temperature.

His dad dragged his fingers over Derek's head. “Steak two nights in a row? You can stick around as long as you want, pal.” He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed against his chest. “Now we do a little detective work.”

“Stake out?” Stiles asked laughing to himself as he sprinkled seasoning on the meat.

“You not only make yourself look bad with these terrible jokes, but you make me look bad for not tossing you over a cliff at childbirth.”

A gasping, choking noise came from under the dining table where Derek was _not_ laughing, thank you very much.

“That wolf gets it,” his dad said, cracking open a beer. “Thanks, Derek. ...aww, jeez, now I'm doing it.”

#

Steaks eaten, Fritos demolished, every single pea either stabbed carefully with a fork to be eaten or delicately lapped off a plate because of a lack of opposable thumbs, and two beers a piece for the humans later, the Stilinski men plus Derek, the wolf, stretched out in the backyard as the stars came out one by one.

“They can't get away with this,” Stiles said.

“They won't.”

They both watched Derek stretch out on his back with a little grunt.

“Kinda strange that a bullet hole doesn't give him any lingering pain, huh?” the sheriff asked over the mouth of his beer.

“I have a theory about that,” Stiles murmured.

Derek stilled.

“I'm sure you do.”

“If I'm right...” Stiles finished off his beer. “Hey, buddy. You ready for bed?”

Derek got to his feet and began circling the perimeter.

With a clap to Stiles' knee, his dad excused himself for the night. Stiles left the back door open to afford Derek some privacy while cleaning up the kitchen.

Later, after Derek settled himself onto Stiles' bed just so and Stiles had shut the light off, Stiles said quietly into the dark, “If I'm right about stuff, by which I mean you, just know I'm cool with it.”

Derek was silent but eventually licked Stiles' hand. 

Stiles buried his smile into his pillow. “'Night, dude.”

# # # 

Stiles cracked an eye and waited for his vision to focus. 4:36AM. He heard the familiar sound of his dad's squad car pulling out of the driveway, smiled into his pillow, and wriggled so Derek's paw wasn't digging into his armpit. Just as he began drifting back to sleep, Derek started growling and the snick of a safety being switched off clicked in his ear.

“Well, well, you're getting sloppy, Derek. The longer you stay an animal, the more dumb you get, huh?”

A boot pressed in between Stiles' shoulder blades, keeping him stuck on his stomach as some man—his voice grit and gravel and a whole lot of smugness—pressed the barrel of his rifle into Stiles' temple. Stiles could hear other footsteps. A camo-covered leg—a .38 caliber handgun strapped around the thigh—came into sight. Stiles guessed there were three men, total.

“Grab the mutt. We'll dispose of this animal lover later. Cuff him. He might have information we could use.”

Another click, the lid of something, and the room was covered in a smoke that burned his chest and eyes, but Derek... Derek howled, a gasping, horrible sound.

“Shut that animal up. Move.”

Stiles struggled against the foot holding him down until the barrel of the rifle pressed so hard his neck was forced into an unnatural angle.

“What do you want from me?” he croaked out.

“We don't want you at all.”

Something struck his head and everything went dark.

~TBC, promise!

**Author's Note:**

> Again: I DO NOT CONSENT to my fanfics being added to Goodreads as there are BUY LINKS and I clearly do not own Teen Wolf. It would have been a hell of a lot gayer, better lit, and better written if so. I have real life reasons that are more important than a need to "catalog" on an outside site owned by Amazon and linked to FB. THANKS.


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